Patrick's Day
by writergal85
Summary: Patrick's birthday celebrations do not go as planned (because nothing goes as planned for the Turners). Originally posted on my blog, now moved here. Not canon at all any longer.
1. Chapter 1

**_A/N: Not canon in any way, and obviously, I don't own any of these characters._**

Shelagh sat on the bed wrapped in her dressing gown with her appointment diary open in her lap. Normally, she found nothing extraordinary to grin about in that book - only reminders about clinic and Tim's school activities - but the entry for today made her smile.

 _March 11, 1960: 1st anniversary_

Sometimes, she could hardly believe it had been a year since she'd married Patrick. One year since she'd pledged to love him for rest of her life; one year since she'd sat much like this on another bed, her heart racing with nerves and anticipation; one year since he'd become hers and she his; and one year since she'd become mother to his son. Now they had Angela as well, sleeping just across the room in her cot. So much had changed in their lives, even the love she shared with her husband - it had grown. And now here she sat, one year later, waiting for Patrick to come to bed so they could share in that love again.

Their anniversary celebration had been small, but lovely. Patrick had switched around his schedule and managed not to be on call. Shelagh had been able to get Mrs. Penney to make dinner for Tim and keep Angela for a few extra hours while they had a quiet dinner out. He'd looked so handsome in his suit, and she already treasured the note he'd tucked into flowers he bought her.

 _Shelagh,_

 _Let me say what I could not in other letters (but I hope you know). I love you. Thank you for loving me and our little family._

 _Your Patrick_

She read it again now, before tucking it into the drawer of the nightstand for safekeeping, and flipped ahead a few days in the appointment book. The coming Saturday was another important day: Patrick's birthday. Last year, it had fallen on the last day of their honeymoon and they hadn't really celebrated - well, Patrick had insisted _she_ was present enough - but this year, she wanted to find some way to mark the occasion. She knew he wouldn't want any sort of fuss or a party, but a cake, most definitely. A family afternoon at the park would be nice, if the weather held, followed by another evening like this one, just the two of them. If she could, Shelagh would have given Patrick a holiday away from Poplar and the responsibilities of the surgery, but babies didn't come on a schedule, and illness and poverty never took a holiday.

She heard the door open and close in the bath down the hall and a few moments later, Patrick padded into their room, barefoot and in his dressing gown. An old favorite saying of Sister Monica Joan's floated through her mind - _When you speak of the sun, so it shines -_ and she smiled up at him.

"Thank you for tonight, Patrick. It was lovely."

He chuckled as he shed his dressing gown and slid into bed next to her. "Our anniversary isn't over yet, Mrs. Turner. We've still got a few more hours." He pressed his lips to a spot just under her ear that always made shiver and she shifted closer, eager for more.

"Yes, if Angela sleeps through the night," she said, careful to keep her voice low. Their daughter had finally learned how to go to sleep on her own, but whether or not she stayed asleep was a matter of chance. Tonight, Shelagh would rather lose sleep for a quite different reason. She closed her eyes at the thought and tilted her head a little further, hoping her husband would continue his pleasing attentions to her neck, but he moved away.

"What's this?" He pulled the appointment book off her lap. "I thought we agreed - no work tonight. Schedules for clinics, Timothy's school appointments, can all wait until tomorrow." He ended the last sentence with a kiss, short but tender.

"It's not work, Patrick. I was just reminiscing, I suppose. And thinking about the future." She smiled, giddy with the happy thought of their future together, and stroked the collar of his pajama top. "Your birthday is next week. Anything in particular you would like?"

His own grin turned teasing and wicked. "Well..."

Some moments later, when she'd regained her breath, she said, "But I am serious, Patrick. We always celebrate Tim's birthday and mine. We'll celebrate Angela's first later this year. What about yours?"

Patrick shrugged. "I don't know. I've always had to work that day - well, except last year." He sighed. I'll probably have to work this year too since I took off for tonight. I'm too old for birthdays anyway."

Shelagh rolled her eyes and kissed her ridiculous husband playfully on the cheek. "Now that is utter nonsense. I think Sister Monica Joan is proof that no one is too old for cake."

Patrick laughed - quietly, so as not to wake the baby. "Perhaps you're right about that." He captured her left hand and kissed her palm, a gesture from the past that was also a promise of the future. "But I don't need anything else. And everything I want is right here."

A year ago, when Shelagh was still finding her way in this new life, she would have blushed and looked away from his warm gaze. Now, she reveled in it and tugged him closer to kiss him and slide her hands to the buttons on his pajama top. She felt his fingers take a similar path on her body, unknotting her dressing gown and tracing warm patterns on her skin through the silk of her nightdress. She moaned - until she heard Angela move and snuffle in her cot. Shelagh froze, eyes wide.

Patrick stopped too, stretched and craned his neck to look over at the baby. After a moment, he turned back to his wife with a cheeky grin.

"Still asleep," he whispered. Just as silently, he slipped her dressing gown off her shoulders and drew her to him. "And I can be quiet if you can."


	2. Chapter 2

Patrick yawned and tried to refocus his attention on Mrs. Hawkins chart in front of him. He usually didn't have this much trouble concentrating on paperwork, even on Saturdays when Shelagh wasn't around. Today, however, he felt more tired and distracted by his thoughts than usual.

It had started when he woke up this morning. It had been a restless night, his sleep broken by a fussy Angela and then a call out to a complicated breech birth that kept him from his bed until nearly 5 a.m. When he woke a few hours later, he felt like he hadn't slept at all.

His joints popped painfully as he stretched and then stumbled to the bath to shave and wash. He drank a glass of water to stave off the hacking cough that seemed to plague him every morning these days and stared with distaste at his reflection in the mirror above the sink.

Today was his birthday. He was 50 years old, and he felt at least 10 years older than that. _You look it too, Turner._ The frown lines around his mouth made him frown even more. You could pack for a week's holiday in those bags under his eyes. And Shelagh's cooking was beginning to take its toll on his waistline if he was being honest.

At least he still had his hair, and it was still mostly dark, he thought, as he picked up the razor with bone-tired weariness. But the stubble on his cheeks seemed to grow more silver every day. He washed it down the sink with the lather. Too bad he couldn't wash away the years with it.

He dressed slowly and without much notice to his clothing, his attention caught by the number of times his knees creaked as he pulled on his socks and trousers. The morning light coming through bedroom window made him squint painfully. He'd probably need glasses soon.

Shelagh, as bright and glowing as the sun herself, looked mildly surprised when he came into the kitchen. "Awake already?" She shifted Angela to her other hip so she could step closer and press a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Happy birthday," she whispered, a rush of breath in his ear.

He tried to return her warm grin. She was so young and pretty. What was she doing with him?

A tiny crease of concern, one he loved to kiss, appeared between her brows. "You could have slept longer, Patrick. You had a long night. You must be exhausted."

He looked exhausted - that was what she meant. Exhausted, worn out and too old.

"I'll be fine." He didn't want her fussing over him like he was an invalid. "Let me help," he added, reaching for the eggs and skillet resting near the hob.

But Shelagh gently pushed him away. "Oh no, thank you, dear. It's your birthday and besides, I've seen what happens when I let you near the stove." She handed him Angela. "Here, wish your daddy a happy birthday."

Angela gave him a toothless grin and tried to grab his nose, her frequent target. Well, it was impossible not to chuckle at that. He let her chubby little hands roam his cheeks experimentally, then pretended to eat her fingers. She squealed, a chorus of sweet baby giggles, and Patrick felt his gray mood lift a bit.

"Who's Daddy's little angel, hmm?" Patrick cooed, tickling his daughter again.

"Not such an angel last night, Dad," Tim said, coming in the sitting room with his pack for Scouts slung over his shoulder. "Even I heard her."

"I'm sorry, Timothy," Shelagh said, placing a plate of eggs and toast on the table and taking the baby from her husband. "I'm afraid there might be more nights like that, especially when Angela starts teething."

Tim shrugged. "It's alright. She won't be this small forever." He smiled slightly as his baby sister gripped his index finger. Patrick sighed, suddenly wistful as he watched his children. No, they wouldn't be small forever.

"Patrick?"

"Hmmm - what?" He turned to see Shelagh frowning in concern again. He mustered a smile to reassure her.

"I'm fine, Shelagh. Just tired." He sat to tuck into his breakfast. "Where's the butter?"

"You weren't listening, Dad. Mum just said there was only margarine." Tim curled his lip in disgust.

"It's better for you both anyway," Shelagh said, sitting across from him to give Angela her bottle. "Especially when you insist spreading it so thickly."

Patrick privately thought he could afford to eat butter on his toast in the morning. He was in good health for his age.

Then he remembered his age. He sighed and reached for the knife. Margarine it was.

"Where are you off to?" he asked his son.

"I've got camping with the Scouts today, Dad – remember?" Tim said with the air of someone used to reminding a forgetful parent.

"Oh, right." Of course he remembered. Or Shelagh would remind him. Good Lord, his memory wasn't going too, was it?

"Can you take him to the church hall on your way to the surgery, Patrick?" Shelagh asked, shifting a grousing Angela in her arms. "I've got to go to the market this morning and finish some other errands, and then I promised Sister Julienne I'd take Angela to Nonnatus for a visit."

"Of course." He had thought while dressing this morning that he might not go into the surgery this particular Saturday. He could put off the paperwork for another day or two. It was his birthday after all, and it would be nice to spend some time with his family.

But his family was clearly already busy, he thought, as he watched Shelagh settle Angela in her playpen so she could write the shopping list. Even his baby girl had plans for the morning. Plans that did not involve him.

"Dad, aren't you finished yet?" Tim asked, his face impatient.

Patrick took a last bite of flavorless toast – damn margarine – and wiped his mouth free of crumbs. "Coming, Tim."


	3. Chapter 3

Patrick read over his patient notes on Mrs. Hawkins for the third time. Why was he reviewing her case? He couldn't remember. His mind kept wandering to other places and times – to his conversation at breakfast, to the sounds of children playing in the street, to his last birthday before Margaret died, to the coming evening with Shelagh. He didn't really know what to expect there. Should he expect anything? Aside from her 'happy birthday' at breakfast, she seemed to have completely brushed the day aside.

 _Well, what did you expect Turner?_ _You told her you didn't want a fuss._

But Shelagh always fussed. In their year of marriage, Patrick had come to expect it, sometimes finding it mildly exasperating, other times endearing. She did it because she cared.

Didn't she care?

Perhaps she didn't anymore. Perhaps she had taken a second look at the number of candles gracing his cake this year and felt awkward about it. He scribbled idly in the margins and tried not to count the difference in years between them.

Perhaps _she_ didn't want to be reminded of his age.

Oh, bloody – he'd completely blotted through his notes on Mrs. Hawkins; not even Shelagh would be able to decipher these. He'd have to start over. He grumbled at his error, balled up the paper and tossed it toward the bin. He missed.

Getting up to retrieve it, he spotted Timothy plodding through the surgery door.

"Tim? What's wrong? Are you hurt? Did something happen at Scouts?"

"I'm fine Dad. Honestly, you're worse than Mum sometimes." He slouched into the chair opposite the desk and dropped his bag on the floor. "The Scouts trip was canceled. Reverend Tom's bus broke down – again."

Patrick moved to sit opposite his son. "Tim, I'm sorry. I know you were looking forward to it." He gave his son a sympathetic grin. "Tell you what – we'll go camping one weekend, just us two? How's that?"

Tim shrugged, his head down, and kicked the legs of his chair. "Sure." He picked up a copy of _The Lancet_ off the edge of the desk and began flipping through it.

Patrick knew that look all too well. He could make promises about the weekend and he could try to keep them, but even with Shelagh helping out as a medical secretary and receptionist, work always came up. He grimaced at the large stack of files between him and his son. "Why don't you go meet Mum and Angela at Nonnatus? I'll probably be a while."

"Can't I stay here, Dad?" Tim asked, looking up from the magazine. "I'll be quiet and read. Or I can help, washing equipment and stuff."

Patrick frowned. "You want to wash equipment? If it's the extra half-crown a week that you're after –"

"It's not that," Tim insisted.

"Then what?"

His son's thin shoulders rose and fell with a heavy sigh. "Well, the nuns are nice and there's always cake, but Mum always stays forever, especially when Angela's awake because everyone wants to see her. And I always have to sit with the _nurses_."

Tim said the last word with such disgust Patrick had to cough to hide his laughter. His boy might be growing up, but thankfully he hadn't yet reached the stage where a meal in the company of several attractive women was something he enjoyed. "I see," he said, grinning.

"Can't I just stay here with you a while?"

Patrick had been about to protest that he didn't have time and Tim would likely be bored waiting around the surgery, but his son's repeated request stopped him. How long had it been since he and Tim had done anything together, just the two of them, father and son? It had to be before Angela arrived, perhaps even earlier. Tim was growing up before his eyes. Look at him now, reading medical journals. He'll be off to university soon, Patrick thought wryly, and then realized it was true.

He had planned on just buying a pie or a sandwich for lunch - but on the other hand, it was his birthday. He could do one better. Patrick moved the stack of papers on his desk aside. "Tell you what - why don't we go for a fry-up? Capriani's?"

Tim's eyebrows rose. "Really?"

"Absolutely - it is my birthday, after all," Patrick said, rising from his chair. "And I think we deserve a treat."

But Tim didn't move. "I don't know, Dad. What about Mum? She doesn't like it when we go there. She says it's too greasy. Maybe we should just stay here. I have my packed lunch."

"A fry-up every now and then isn't going to hurt, and you can eat your lunch another time." His son had never turned down a meal at Capriani's, not even when he was ill with polio. He frowned. "Tim, are you sure everything is fine? Something you want to talk about?"

"No." For a moment, Tim stared firmly at the mantle behind the desk with its family photos, chiming clock, and sunny flowers. His expression lightened. "You're right. It will be all right. Let's go."

Patrick was baffled by his son's sudden change in mood, but he didn't have much chance to question it before Tim was out the door. He scribbled a quick note for the nurse on duty and hurried to catch up with him.

"Just don't tell your mother."


	4. Chapter 4

Tim and his dad lumbered out of Capriani's, their bellies full to bursting with fried bread, sausages, eggs and that most perfect of foods, bacon.

"Can we come back to Capriani's for my birthday?" Tim asked, licking the last of the grease from his fingertips.

"Absolutely, if that's what you want," Patrick replied, though after that meal he wasn't sure he'd ever want to eat again. Oh, he loved Capriani's - had since his days a young, green medical student - but perhaps Shelagh was right about not overdoing it. He swallowed back a belch and adjusted the waistband of his trousers again.

"What about Angie's birthday?" Tim asked.

Patrick laughed. "Now you're pushing your luck."

Tim shrugged. "You're right. We should probably wait until she's old enough to eat bacon."

The sun had come out since they'd entered the café, and both father and son lifted their faces to enjoy the warmth. As they walked, they talked about school and Scouts and what Mum would say if she'd seen what they'd eaten for lunch. Tim surprised Patrick by asking him about his rounds, and if he could borrow some books from his office.

"When did you take such an interest in medicine?" Patrick asked.

"After I was in the hospital, I guess," Tim said. "Being around all those doctors made me start thinking about it more. And it's what you and Mum talk about at home - when you aren't making mushy faces at one another."

Patrick laughed loudly, his head thrown back. "One day, son, you'll find all that mushy stuff interesting, too."

They turned the corner and approached a small park. Reverend Hereford had organized a cricket game for the Scouts and they passed the bat back and forth.

"Oi, Turner!" one of the older boys yelled and waved.

"Go on ahead, Tim," Patrick said. "I'll catch up."

Patrick smiled as his son ran to join his friend. If he thought back far enough, he could remember those days. His parents hadn't been rich by any stretch of their pocketbooks - no one was at that time - and he'd spent most of his afternoons as a child in his father's newspaper office, working as a copy boy and running errands. But Sundays after church were always free, and he and the other boys would organize rough games of cricket and football in the street. He'd come home dirty, with scraped knees and bruises, and his mother would just roll her eyes and bandaged him up. She'd been a nurse during the Great War, and she teased him that his Sunday antics at least put her medical training to good use. He could remember her efficiently cleaning the dirt from his wounds, soothing him when he winced or cried out in pain.

"Take the pain like a man," his father would admonish when the tears came.

"You cry if you want to, Patrick," his mother would say as she smoothed down the plaster. "I've seen grown men cry during the heat of battle."

He hadn't really known what she'd meant by that until years later. She was gone by then.

She would have liked Shelagh, he thought, and she would have doted on Tim and Angela, no doubt. He wished she could have seen all of this - his family, his medical practice, the children, how London had changed and was slowly inching toward better days. She would have been proud, he hoped.

"Hello, Dr. T," the reverend greeted him as he walked up.

"Hello, Reverend. I see you found a way to keep the boys busy. It's too bad about the camping trip."

His brow furrowed. "Camping trip?"

Before Patrick could question him, Tim came running back toward him. "Sorry, Dad. We can go now."

Patrick frowned. His son certainly was acting odd today. "You can stay and play if you want to, Tim."

Tim shifted from one foot to the other. "I told Mum I wouldn't. She - she doesn't want me getting my clothes dirty."

"Well, that's never stopped you before," Patrick said drily. "And exactly how were you going to stay clean camping?"

Tim just shrugged and wouldn't meet his eye. Something was definitely up.

"Tim, what's going on? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he muttered, toeing the dirt. "Don't you have to go back to the surgery?"

Patrick felt guilt stab him in the gut. Was that what this about? Work still getting in between him and his son? His practice was extremely important to him and to the people of Poplar...but he didn't want to end up like his father, always at the office, always working. Tim and Angela deserved more than that, at least for one day.

"Not today," he said. "Today, I am playing cricket with my son."

Tim looked up, his eyes wide. "But Dad -"

"What do you say, Reverend? Got room for a couple of half-decent bowlers?"

"Absolutely. If you think you can keep up," the younger man said, with a good-natured smirk.

"I'll take that challenge," Patrick replied, tossing his suit jacket across a park bench and beginning to roll up his sleeves. "Let's show them how it's done, Tim."


	5. Chapter 5

"Thank you, Fred, for helping me with the basket," Shelagh said as they approached the maternity home. "I'm afraid I packed it heavier than I realized."

"Oh, anything for you and Miss Angela, Mrs. Turner," Fred said, transferring the basket to his other hand. "Though I must say, judging by the weight of this, I'm a bit jealous of Dr. T at the moment."

Shelagh chuckled as she pushed the pram to a stop at the door of the maternity home and lifted Angela out.

"You can set the basket by the car, Fred. I'll be back in just a moment."

She smiled secretly to herself as she walked briskly inside. No doubt she'd find Tim "starving" and kicking his feet against the leg of his chair, and Patrick somewhat grumpy at his son's impatience, but that would all be more than remedied in the next few minutes.

The waiting room was empty. So was Patrick's office. Perhaps he'd been called out and taken Timothy with him? But the car was still parked outside. She was just about to check the nursery when Nurse Gilbert came bustling into the waiting room, chart in hand.

"Oh, hello, Mrs. Turner. Are you looking for the doctor?"

"Yes, and Timothy. They were supposed to be here -"

"They were, but I think they left for lunch."

Lunch? Shelagh frowned. Tim was supposed to keep Patrick here. That was a key part of the plan. She glanced at her watch - it was after 1 p.m. Baking the cake had taken longer than she'd expected.

"I'm sure they'll be back soon if you'd like to wait," the nurse said, setting down the chart and picking up another off the desk. "I don't know why he came in actually. I was told Dr. Gregory was scheduled as a locum for the weekend."

"That was my doing. It was meant to be a surprise," she said, shifting Angela to her other hip. "Did they say where they were going?"

"Capriani's, I believe."

Of course. Patrick loved that cafe. It was his and Tim's cafe, where they usually went for their "man-to-man chats," over a fry-up. For some reason she couldn't fathom, bacon and plenty of fried potatoes smoothed over any awkward disagreements there might be between father and son, and they always returned from the cafe in better moods.

"Thank you, Nurse Gilbert. I trust you'll be all right here, for the rest of the day and tomorrow?

"Of course." She grinned. "Good luck with your surprise."

"Where's the doc?" Fred asked when Shelagh returned, a slight frown etched on her brow.

"I'm afraid I was too late. Dr. Turner and Timothy left for lunch already,"

Fred frowned. "And after you went to all that trouble -"

Shelagh placed Angela in her pram. "It was no trouble, really. I'll meet them at the cafe."

She took the picnic blanket, the cake tin, and Angela's bottles out of the picnic basket and tucked them in the pram. "Here, you may as well take the rest of the picnic. Someone should enjoy it."

"Are you sure, Mrs. Turner?"

Shelagh nodded and tried to quash her lingering disappointment at being left out. "Please do."

Fred sighed and lifted the basket. "All right. You've twisted my arm. Tell the doc I said happy birthday - and he don't know what he's missing."

The streets were quiet for a Saturday and Shelagh pushed the pram slowly in the direction of the cafe, lost in her thoughts.

She'd planned a picnic and a day out of London, a day as close to a holiday as she could manage on short notice. Perhaps she should have just told Patrick about her plans during breakfast, but she's wanted it to be a surprise. So often their plans for good days were interrupted by disappointments - family dinners ended by late-night calls to deathbeds, a wedding postponed by polio, dreams of more children taken away by TB. Good surprises were few and far between.

Angela babbled as the pram rocked over the cobbles, and catching Shelagh smiled. Well, maybe not so few. The day Angela came into their lives had been a day of blessed interruptions and wonderful surprises. And there would be more.

"Well, the day is young, I suppose," she mused to Angela as they turned the corner at the park.

There was the cricket game going on, which wasn't unusual when the weather was nice. What made Shelagh stop in her tracks was the person standing on the pitch.

"Patrick?"

They'd both gone to cricket matches to watch Tim play and she'd heard Patrick talk with his son about cricket before, but she'd never actually seen him play. The truth was Patrick didn't have much time for play of any sort, with the responsibilities of the surgery so heavy on his shoulders. He loved his work, as she loved hers, but it wore him down.

Now, sweaty, out-of-breath and grinning wildly, he looked about ten years old and it made her laugh. He's thoroughly enjoying himself, she thought. Just as long as he doesn't overdo it and throw out his shoulder.

She stood by the park bench, where Patrick had tossed his suit coat, and watched from a distance as he slung his tie over his shoulder and prepared to bat.

"Be kind to an old man, Tom?" he called out, earning jeers from the boys in the field, including his own son.

The reverend scoffed. "After that trick you pulled the last time?" He shook his head. "Not a chance, Dr. T."

The reverend wound up and bowled, but not too swift for Patrick, who hit the ball, hard and fast to the left, leaving the teenage fielders to scramble after it before it rolled into the underbrush.

She watched as Patrick from one end of the pitch to the other, before the fielders recovered the ball and Patrick saw her.

"Shelagh?" He jogged her way, out-of-breath and his hair rumpled by the March wind. "What are you doing here? I thought you'd be at Nonnatus."

"I thought I'd stop by the surgery and take you out to lunch, but I heard you beat me to it. It's nearly half-past, Patrick."

His wide grin sank. "Is it? I took off my watch so it wouldn't get smashed and I lost track of the time. I'd better head back." He reached for his suit jacket, but Shelagh placed a hand on his arm, stopping him.

"I never knew you played cricket."

His grin returned. "Who do you think taught Timothy?" He turned back to towards the game and called out to his son. "Finish the game, Tim. And then home for dinner."

"It looks like you're winning," Shelagh said.

He snorted. "We're losing terribly. But Tim's got quite an arm. He looked proudly back at his son as the game started up again, and Shelagh chuckled. She knew that look - she'd seen it more than once on Tim's face when homework or choir practice got in the way of playtime.

"Why don't you stay a while, Patrick?" she said.

"But the surgery -"

"It's all taken care of. I arranged locum days ago."

His mouth dropped open slightly. "You planned this?"

Well, not this exactly, Shelagh thought, but she smiled and gently took his suit coat from him. "I thought you deserved a bit of a holiday - especially from paperwork. Nurse Gilbert assures me things are quite calm at the moment."

"You really are wonderful, you know." He noticed the cake tin and bottles of lemonade in the pram now, and he sighed. "But you made plans for the afternoon."

"Uh, just a picnic. It's nothing that can't be enjoyed later." She met his eyes, bold and eager, just to be sure he got her meaning.

A slow smile spread across his face as he stepped a little closer, but not too close for impropriety, and lowered his voice."Later then, after dinner - just the two of us?"

A wink and the press of his hand, and Shelagh flushed to her hairline. But she was much braver than she'd been a year ago, and rather than look away, she grinned and tightened her fingers around his a moment.

"Just us two," she agreed. "Now, go on. They're waiting for you."

She watched just for a moment as her husband rejoin the game, shouting encouragements to his son and the other boys, and then turned the pram for the walk home. None are so old as those who have outlived enthusiasm, Sister Monica Joan might say, pulling from her endless library of quotations - but she certainly wouldn't be referring to Patrick.

"Still," Shelagh mused to her baby daughter. "We should make sure there's a bottle of liniment in the cupboard, just in case."


	6. Chapter 6

Five hours, three scraped knees, two slices of chocolate cake, one enormous birthday dinner and a lost cricket game later, Patrick Turner lay stretched out on the sofa, nearly content and quite happy not to move for the rest of the evening. Only one thing - or person rather - was missing, and he craned his neck now to look for her.

"Shelagh?"

"Hmm?" Her answer came from the direction of the kitchen.

"Come sit with me?"

"In a moment, Patrick. I've just got to finish with dishes."

Well, there was only one thing for that. He would have to find other ways of coaxing her to his side. He stood and stretched, his muscles a little stiff and sore from the cricket game that afternoon, but nothing too terrible. Still, he might able to use that to play on her sympathies.

He made his way to the kitchen, making sure to walk slowly and grimace a bit. Shelagh continued talking about the day as she scrubbed the last of the pots and pans.

"You should have seen Angela when I was trying to finish your cake this morning. It was all I could do to keep her from reaching for the icing bowl." Her eyes sparkled with amusement. "She may be spending too much time with Sister Monica Joan."

Patrick chuckled. "Just wait until she starts walking, sweetheart. We'll have a little cake thief on our hands." He took care to wince as he reached up into the cupboard for a tea cup. His grimace did not go unnoticed.

"Patrick, are you all right?"

"Fine, Shelagh. Just a little sore." He made a show of rubbing his neck, which in his defense, did feel a little stiff.

He could practically see the nurse in her resurface and take over; Shelagh's lips pursed in worry as her eyes scanned his body for any evidence of pain or illness. "Well, it's no wonder, spending all afternoon playing cricket with ten-year-olds and then lying down on that couch." She dried her hands on a dishcloth. "Go lie down on the bed. I'll be there in a moment."

Patrick grinned secretly to himself as he went down the hall to their bedroom. His plan was working out perfectly.

He undressed and pulled on his pajama bottoms and dressing gown, careful not to disturb Angela sleeping on her cot in the corner. He didn't want the good mood of the evening spoiled because he woke the baby.

Despite the stiffness in his back, he felt infinitely better than he had this morning, younger even. Perhaps he should "take a holiday" more often, he thought - whisk Shelagh off for a late lunch and an afternoon out, or take Angela to the park to watch the ducks or simply take a few hours for himself to read the paper and browse through the various nautical oddities in Mr. Hale's shop.

But even as he made plans in his head, he knew it was impossible. Next Saturday would come, and he would have to work again, probably even longer to catch up on the paperwork he missed today. There were never enough hours, he thought, stretching out on the bed to wait for his wife.

Shelagh came in moments later, a jar of liniment in her hand. "Robe and vest, off, if you please," she said primly.

Patrick shucked off his top, trying not to seem too eager, and sat on the edge of the bed. Shelagh slipped off her house slippers and sat behind him, her feet tucked under her.

"I don't think I've ever heard Tim talk so much about a game of cricket," Shelagh said, her fingers kneading. "I think it might have made his week, you joining in and playing with him."

"I don't get to do that enough." He sighed. "I"m sorry we ruined your surprise, Shelagh, after you went through all that effort. If you'd just told me-"

"Then it wouldn't have been a surprise, Patrick!" She moved her hands further up his back, working at his shoulders, where he kept all his worry. "I guessed that holiday would be one the last things you'd give yourself. I was little a frustrated when I arrived at the surgery and couldn't find you. But I have no doubt Fred enjoyed your birthday lunch," she added, chuckling.

"I just wanted you to have a good birthday," she continued. "Did you?"

He reached back, took the slim hand that rested on his right shoulder and brought it to his lips. "My best. Thank you, my love."

Shelagh continued her ministrations, and Patrick made no protests, though he was no longer sore.

"Feeling any better?" she asked, her voice behind him soft, and a little breathless

"Much." He groaned as her fingers crept up his neck, reaching a sensitive spot behind his ear. "I'll have extra paperwork to finish on Monday."

"No you won't," she said firmly. "I'll do it. Consider it part of your birthday present."

He grinned roguishly. "I'd rather thought that wasn't all I was getting."

"Greedy man," she teased. "What else could you possibly want?"

He turned in her arms ."The same thing I got last year," he said, his voice rough with longing, "You."

She looked at him in a way that made his heart clench and leaned into his embrace. "You already have me, Patrick. But Happy Birthday anyway."


End file.
